


A Little Charity

by mydogwatson



Series: Once Upon A Time At Xmas [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Another meeting of Sherlock and John, Gen, xmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 07:11:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5447768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's life is not going well.  Sherlock helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Charity

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. Two things I should have mentioned yesterday. One is that this is non-canon. Or, at least, non their canon. Very much my canon, which is equally valid, I have always thought. Also, it is rather whimsical. But that's okay for a Xmas tale, right?
> 
> Thanks for the comments and kudos on part one and hope you like this as well.

Behold, I do not give lectures or  
A little charity, when I give myself.

-Walt Whitman

 

Sherlock tugged at the bottom of his suit jacket. Not that he was nervous, of course. He was just thinking about the experiment that was gurgling away back at the house. In his bedroom. Which is exactly where he wanted to be, instead of standing awkwardly in this shabby church hall. Home was only about three miles away, even closer if he went through the park instead of by the road.

But just as he was starting to slid one foot towards the exit, Mummy came through the door from the kitchen, carrying a large basket of bread rolls, which she set on the very long trestle table. “Have you folded all of those serviettes?” she asked him. Once a year Mummy set her important work aside and threw herself into the annual holiday party the church held for the less fortunate. And when Mummy threw herself into something…

“Yes, I did,” Sherlock replied, barely escaping being run over by a large woman carrying pies. He scowled at her fiercely; sadly, she did not seem to notice.

The person with whom he was really angry was, of course, his stupid brother. Mycroft had always been the one to come help Mummy at this so-called party and he had always been rather smug about it. But this year, at the last minute, he had telephoned to say that he could not actually leave Eton until the following day. Sherlock was very skeptical about that, frankly.

Mummy had been quite cheerful about it, however. “You’re eleven now,” she’d said. “Mycroft has been helping me since he was eight.”

He could have given her his opinion on his brother’s Good Boy act, but that would have gotten him nothing but a sharp look. Instead, he used a line that he’d heard from his uncle more than once. “Couldn’t I just make a donation?”

Not good, it seemed, because he got The Look anyway.

Sherlock had briefly thought about suggesting that Daddy could come along instead, but he already knew what the response to that would be: that Daddy was playing Santa at the senior citizen residence as usual. It always puzzled Sherlock as to why old people needed a Santa. Surely they didn’t still believe?

Honestly, did everyone have to go completely insane at this time of the year?

Before Sherlock could think of some reason why he really, really needed to go home immediately [his bedroom was in danger of exploding? Or in danger of smelling really bad, at least…] the doors to the hall opened and a chattering horde came rushing in.

He was assigned to bread roll duty. There was an established routine, apparently. Ask each person if they would like a roll. If the answer was yes, he was to use the tongs to pick one up from the basket and set it on their plate. He drew the line, however, at saying “Happy Xmas” to every single one of them. None of them said it to him, either.

Well, except one. A blond boy in a quite hideous holiday jumper that was about two sizes too large gave Sherlock a cheerful smile. “Oh, thank you,” he said. “And Happy Xmas.”

Sherlock paused in surprise. The boy looked to be about his age, although he was smaller. “Thank you,” Sherlock replied. “Same to you.”

Although, looking at the boy’s thin, unhappy mother and listening to the strident complaints from the girl who was obviously his older sister, he was not optimistic at all about the chances of a pleasant holiday for the family.

Before either of them could speak again, Sherlock saw an old man sitting all the way at the other end of the table waving him over. Apparently, he was in urgent need of a second roll. Sherlock frowned, but trotted off obediently. By the time he had delivered said roll and also listened to a lengthy discourse on other rolls the man had enjoyed in his life, Mummy and the other ladies had distributed pie to everyone. For some reason, Sherlock wandered back over to where the boy was sitting.

He was greeted with a huge grin. “You didn’t get to eat,” the boy said.

Sherlock shrugged. “I’ll eat at home,” he said, although he might not. Sometimes he refused food, wanting to train his body not to need to eat so often. After all, he didn’t want to turn into Mycroft.

“This is the biggest slice of pie I have ever seen. I could share it with you.”

Sherlock just stared at the boy for a moment. “You don’t have to do that,” he finally said, feeling awkward.

“Don’t have to. Want to.” He grabbed an unused fork from the table and scooted over on the bench to make room. “Sit. Come on.” When Sherlock still hesitated, the boy stuck out his hand. “I’m John, by the way.”

“Sherlock,” he said, actually shaking hands. Then John used that hand to pull him down onto the bench.

“Have some pie.”

It sounded like an order, so, surprising himself, Sherlock actually used the fork to take a bite and chewed it slowly. He knew that Mummy was watching him, but decided to ignore her.

They didn’t talk much as they shared the pie, but the easy silence seemed to suit them both. Across the table, John’s sister seemed to be upset about something and was arguing with their mother; at first, they kept their voices low, but as the disagreement went on, the noise level rose. John kept his eyes firmly on the plate. Others in the room were starting to watch the two quarrel now and Sherlock could see a faint pinkness start to appear in John’s cheeks.

For the first time in his eleven years of life, Sherlock Holmes wished desperately that he had some of those hated ‘social skills’ that people always talked about and that even Mycroft had managed to develop. He wanted them now so that he might know how to make John feel better about what was happening. But all he could do was sit next to him and take another bite of the pie.

Suddenly the girl jumped to her feet and threw the plate to the floor, where it exploded. “I don’t need to take advice about drinking from a drunk,” she shrieked, before running from the hall.

Sherlock watched as John slowly set the fork onto the edge of the plate and wiped at his mouth with the serviette. Finally, he carefully refolded the cloth and stood to follow his mother, who was evading the kindly attentions of the flustered vicar as she hurried out.

In an instant, Sherlock knew what he had to do. He jumped to his feet and rushed to the corner of the room where a large decorated tree stood, surrounded by gifts. The gaily wrapped parcels were divided into Boys and Girls piles, then by age. But he ignored all that and went for the one covered in silver paper that he had watched Mummy wrap. He knew what was inside and he somehow felt sure that John would like it.

Holding onto the present, he ran out into the car park. John was just climbing into the back seat of a battered old sedan, but he paused when Sherlock ran up. “Here,” Sherlock said. “You didn’t take your present.”

For a moment, it looked as if John might refuse the offering. But then he took the gift, clutching it to his chest, and smiling just a little at Sherlock. “Thank you,” he whispered, before sliding into the car.

Sherlock stood there for a moment, watching as the vehicle drove off, belching black smoke as it went. Finally, he turned and walked slowly back to the hall. Mummy was standing in the doorway, watching him. “That was a lovely thing you did, Sherlock,” she said quietly.

He shrugged. “It was the astronomy book,” he said. “He’ll enjoy it.”

Then he went inside and began to clear the table.

**Author's Note:**

> Tomorrow: The Music In My Heart


End file.
